As I write Pandora’s box flies open and my words scatter into shapes and ,if lucky, forms.
When I was twelve our family visited a man with mania.He played Aida on the gramsphone and danced round the living room in his underwear,while his wife made tea.
His daughter had taken to her bed where she ate fruit,because,as she told me, she was on a diet.She was extremely large.
Such was the madness that interested me so much more than reading mage zines about beautiful people, or claiming to be in love, when being alive was sometimes puzzling.
I became a therapist, watching a world. I wished to unravel, as if it would give order to my mind which could read people’s insides before noticing the outside.Or thought I did.
To day in this time of empty verbiage and clusters if voices,on television,in twitters and on phones,the inside seems lost.
That is the maddest thing of all:this counting of possessions and novelties as if they afford any meaning to our already overstimulated underactualized lives.
I sometimes feel like being the madman who played Aida.